by Allie Mackay
His words stunned her, but she schooled her features, hoping he wouldn’t notice.
“You think Wee Hughie MacSporran is hoping to find it?” She looked at him. “That he’s really here to search for an ancient MacNeil sword?”
She shot another glance at the author.
He looked arrogant, true.
But she doubted he was a sword thief.
The fisherman shrugged, the inborn reticence of the Highlands settling over him, closing his expression. He was clearly sorry he’d said as much as he had.
“Aye, well.” He couldn’t quite hide a trace of indignation. “If that’s his plan, we’ll be hearing soon enough if he finds the sword.”
“But you’re hoping he won’t?”
“That I am.” The man nodded, solemnly. “There’s some things shouldn’t be disturbed.”
The words spoken, he cut through the crowd, exiting through the hotel door to the dark night beyond.
Mindy started after him, sure that the sword he meant was Bran of Barra’s. Before she made it halfway across the reception, the blue-cardiganed proprietress sailed up to her, the woman’s beaming face heralding success.
“You’re in luck!” The woman halted before Mindy. “I’ve just ran down Jock and he’s agreed that you can let The Anchor. In fact, he’s heading there now to put on fresh linens and lay a fire for you.”
Mindy blinked. “That’s wonderful.”
She hoped it was.
She’d forgotten all about the Hebridean House not having a room for her.
The Anchor hadn’t sounded very inviting.
But beggars couldn’t be choosers.
And if the cottage wasn’t exactly luxurious, she’d at least have a roof over her head. Better yet, according to the proprietress’s earlier description, The Anchor also boasted its own bath.
She’d have privacy.
Much-needed alone time to relax and – her heart began to race – to think about Bran and the mysterious Barra sword, an ancient MacNeil heirloom.
Mindy’s pulse skittered.
She was certain the two were connected.
When she stepped outside the Hebridean House and saw that the night had cleared, any doubts that might have remained left her. She’d never seen so many stars. And even from here, high up on a hill above the village, the lights along the waterfront twinkled brightly, reflecting in water that looked as still and glassy as a black mirror.
It was a beautiful night.
With a surge of buoyancy that would have astounded Margo and the others at Ye Olde Pagan Times, she almost believed that the disappearance of the pea-soup fog was a sign.
A good portent.
One that meant she was supposed to be here.
So she pulled her jacket tighter against the cold and started down the road toward her car, happier than she’d been in a very long time.
She inhaled deeply as she walked, filling her lungs with the chill night air. She relished how it smelled not just after-rain fresh, but also of the sea. And, she was sure, a trace of heather and woodsmoke. Enchanted, she tilted back her head and smiled up at the glittering heavens, hoping that a certain burly and too full of life to hold with cloud floating ghost would soon pay her another call.
Mindy grinned as she reached her car, surprised to find herself almost eager to left-drive down to The Anchor. The tiny village suddenly struck her as cozy. With the rain stopped and everything so peaceful, she couldn’t help but recall the noise and hectic of the Newark airport that had been her last glimpse of America.
The auto-fumed stink of the taxi stand and the crush of passengers and airport personnel in the always crowded check-in area. Security had been a nightmare she refused to relive, even as a memory.
As for the concourses and boarding gates…
She shook her head, clearing the images.
Then she looked around, feeling the quiet like a living, breathing presence. It felt like heaven, she decided, fumbling in her bag for the car keys. Her hand actually shook when her fingers closed on them. And it wasn’t because she was upset. She was feeling quite good, almost deliriously so.
Margo would say it was Highland magic.
And until this moment, Mindy would have scoffed at the very idea.
But now…
One night in the Hebrides and she was a changed woman.
Who would have thought it?
Chapter Ten
Mindy’s elation began to evaporate as she drove through the village. Although the lights still twinkled, many reflecting prettily in the night-blackened water, there wasn’t a sign of life anywhere. The entire waterfront and harbor stretched full of emptiness. Across the bay, she caught the flash of white breakers on the rocks edging Bran’s islet. She also saw the great piles of stone from the Folly, the sight making her breath catch.
The stones – now better termed ruins, she supposed – were everywhere. Although some even appeared to be stacked in wall-like formations, it was obvious that anything presently standing on the tiny isle was silent and roofless.
The islet was a world of shadow waiting to reawaken.
Mindy’s fingers tensed on the steering wheel. Try as she might, she couldn’t tamp down a flicker of excitement. Something about the piles of stones called to her, making her pulse quicken. Yet she shouldn’t feel anything except annoyance. She didn’t want to be here. What happened to the islet, to its erstwhile stronghold, now dismantled, didn’t concern her. She was a means to an end.
No more, no less.
She shouldn’t care about the stones.
She didn’t care about them.
Even so, she slowed the car to a crawl. It was hard to look away from the sharp outlines beginning to take form on Bran’s isle. But she couldn’t stare out across the water as she drove, so she scanned the village instead, each turn of the wheel making her feel farther from civilization. Nothing stirred behind the drawn curtains of the whitewashed cottages along the road. Even the chimneys looked cold, without a trace of smoke rising above them.
A tiny, combined general store and post office was closed at this hour. And the pub, called the Islesman’s Pride, appeared equally battened down for the night.
Only the fish and chip shop blazed, but as she drove past the shop’s large, plate glass window, it was easy to see that the counters were bare and there wasn’t anyone standing behind the till.
No one moved on the docks, either.
And if the fishing boats bobbing everywhere were any darker, they’d be invisible.
Mindy drove on, refusing to be daunted.
She did lift her chin, trying to recapture the wonder that had swept her on leaving Hebridean House. It was the same night, after all. So she leaned forward, peering briefly upward through the windshield, relief flooding her to see the heavens still brilliant with stars.
When she looked back at the road, she was rewarded by the sudden appearance of a small sandy beach. It curved along beside the harbor wall, shining beautifully in the silvery glow of the moon.
Feeling better, she passed the deserted Village Hall without even a twinge of ill ease. Her practical mind told her that all the locals were at Hebridean House, no doubt vying for Wee Hughie’s attention. If she were of a whimsical mind like Margo, she’d have to admit that the stillness, together with the lovely night, lent the village an entrancing, almost ethereal quality.
It was sort of like slipping inside one of those incredibly atmospheric, too beautiful to be true, cozy cottages-and-landscape paintings one saw in so many mall gift shops in the States.
She couldn’t think of the artist’s name, but his colorful, luminous work was right in front of her.
Come to life in Barra.
Something told her that she, too, could come into her own here.
That brooding gray skies, wild, cold rain, and starry nights like this one would soon have her believing she’d found something she didn’t know she’d been seeking.
But before she let her mind wander d
own such a fanciful path, she needed to find the Anchor.
When a sloping, broken-stoned jetty at the far end of the beach appeared in her headlights, she knew the self-catering cottage had to be near. Especially as the road seemed to dead-end against a fast-approaching cliffside that reared up just ahead, its sheer, wet-gleaming heights effectively signaling that she could go no further.
Sure enough, when she pulled over beside the jetty, she immediately spotted a small, thick-walled cottage across the road. A handmade sign propped in a window assured her in large, carefully printed black letters that the one-story dollhouse with its corrugated iron roof and blue painted door, was indeed the Anchor.
She climbed out of the car, sure she’d never seen anything sweeter.
A fluttery sense of anticipation stirred inside her as she gathered her bags and crossed the road. The Anchor might be small, but it had the potential for cozy.
Tired as she was, that sounded good.
But when she let herself inside – just as the woman at Hebridean House had said, the door wasn’t locked – she found the cottage cold and smelling of damp. She shivered, hoping the chill wouldn’t last long. Someone, likely Jock, the owner, had lit a fire and even turned on a tiny heating unit that stood in a corner.
Better yet, a kitchen niche opened off the main room and she could see the makings for tea set out on the counter. A very modern electric kettle promised she wouldn’t have to wait long for boiled water. And packets of Scottish Breakfast Tea and Earl Grey Cream gave her a choice, while a generously sized box of locally made shortbread reminded her of how long it’d been since she’d eaten.
There was also a large jar of hot chocolate, its thoughtful inclusion going a long way in impressing her.
In all her years of flying and sleeping in different hotel rooms every night, she couldn’t recall ever finding a jar of finest hot chocolate waiting to tempt her.
Digital alarms she couldn’t figure out, too-thin walls, and televisions that seemed to show only hotel information or pay movies without going fuzzy, yes.
Elevator noise, rattling air conditioners that could flash-freeze you within seconds, and – her personal favorite - the madness of landing too close to an ice machine.
But chocolate?
Never.
The Anchor was also spotlessly clean.
It might not have been aired for a while, but it was charming. The well-scrubbed stone floor reminded her of the cozy, old-fashioned kitchen in the farmhouse where her grandmother had grown up in White Horse, Pennsylvania. The hearth fireplace at one end of the small, all-in-one lounge and dining area, though tiny, made her feel snug as the proverbial bug in a rug.
Not to mention what a treat it was to smell woodsmoke at the same time she could stare out deep-set windows at the bay, even hear the slapping of surf against the jetty by the road.
The effect was magical.
Mindy sank onto a tiny tartan sofa, beginning to understand why her sister and others like her went all moony-eyed at the first flash of plaid or glimpse of purple heather splashed across a hillside.
Scotland was special.
And there was something about the Anchor that made her heart pound. Skepticism insisted the strange sense of peace and rightness had to do with the cottage’s lack of a television and phone. It followed that, in today’s crazy world, a place without what Margo called modern inconveniences would hold a certain attraction.
Even so…
She glanced about, trying to pinpoint why the neat but humble cottage made her pulse race and even left her feeling rather breathless, even giddy.
She couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary.
Across from her, a door opened onto a shadowy bedroom. She could make out an old-timey wardrobe and a double bed, spread with the same red tartan as the sofa and an armchair by the fireplace.
Only when she returned her attention to the kitchen, drawn, perhaps, by the promise of a cup of hot chocolate to sip as she stared into the fire, did she see why she’d been swept by such tingly awareness.
It wasn’t the Anchor.
It was him.
Bran of Barra.
He stood watching her from the kitchen, his hands clasped behind his back and Gibbie at his side. Still wearing his modern outfit of worn cords and an Aran sweater, he was the personification of everything irresistible to women who loved rugged, manly men.
As always, his blue gaze scorched her. When he started forward, his long strides bringing him straight toward her, his lips quirking in that oh-so-sexy smile, Mindy leapt to her feet, her heart flipping.
She clapped a hand to her breast, her eyes rounding. “It’s you!”
“Aye.” He kept coming. “I am myself, last I looked, anyway.”
Mindy stared at him. She was sure the floor was dipping beneath her. She knew that his appearance, just the sight of him, made the rest of the world go away. There was only him, the thundering of her heart, and her inability to focus on anything else.
He affected her that powerfully.
The slow burn in his eyes said he knew it.
“We were interrupted.” His Scottish accent was soft and rich, deeper than usual, and – she swallowed – so damned sexy that it made his three simple words sound like a declaration of undying love and devotion.
Or his intent to devour her.
Shivers raced over her skin at the thought. Fluttery warmth rippled deep in her belly. Her natural reticence, every reason she didn’t want to fall for a Highlander – for a ghost! – simply evaporated.
But that didn’t mean they weren’t valid.
They were, so…
“You don’t need to kiss me again.” She scooted behind the couch. If he so much as touched her, she’d be lost.
“Kiss you?” His broad shoulders blocked out the kitchen doorway. The pure sin smile playing about his lips disproved the note of astonishment in his voice.
He wasn’t surprised at all.
He was amused.
“Mindy-lass.” He lifted his hands, palms outward. “I’ll no’ kiss you unless you desire it.” He glanced at the plaid-covered sofa, his eyes twinkling. “But dinnae tell me you’ve forgotten that a mere bit o’ wood and stuffing willnae keep me from you if I wish to be at your side?”
Mindy gulped.
She had forgotten.
She remembered very well when she found him towering but a handbreadth away from her. Gibbie had moved like lightning, too. The dog now lay sprawled across the sofa, his shaggy gray bulk taking up every inch. And he looked as if he meant to stay put for a good long while.
The beast’s master looped his arms around Mindy’s hips.
She stiffened, heated tingles spilling through her. “You said you weren’t going to kiss me!” She glared at him, seeing at once that he knew he made her absolutely feverish with desire, as he called it.
Who talked like that?
Unless she desires?
She drew a tight breath. He made her feel as if they were acting out a scene from a historical romance novel. She was the resisting but soon-to-be-ravished-and-loving-it heroine and he was the dashing, impossibly sexy hero about to ride off into the sunset with her. Or, in his case, toss her over his shoulder and carry up the winding, turnpike stair to the great four-poster bed in his castle turret.
And, heaven help her, she almost wished he would.
Instead, she lifted her chin. “About this kissing business, you said-”
“Nothing about no’ touching you.” He tightened his arms around her, grinning. “I said I’d no’ kiss you. A kiss isnae touching.”
“Touching leads to kisses.”
“I could caress you into deepest pleasure.” He leaned in, winking at her. “Were I of a mind to do so.”
“O-o-oh!” Mindy broke free, amazed that even his arrogance worked to break down her defenses.
Scotsmen should be illegal!
Sure of it, she dashed to the hearth, just managing to bite back a curse when she nearl
y tripped over the colorful scatter rug on the slick stone floor.
She whirled to face him. “You are insufferable! A great, swell-headed, domineering-”
“I am Barra.” He folded his arms, looking more amused than ever. “As such, I’ll no’ be arguing the great part. As for the rest-”
“Why are you here?”
“I was telling you before you told me no’ to kiss you.”
“Then tell me now.”
To her surprise, his face turned serious and he went to stand at the window, looking out at the bay and – she knew – his own little islet and the stones that had once been the very substance of his home.
His life.
That it was so, that his tiny spit of rock in the bay and the jumble of stones she’d returned meant everything to him, stood etched on every inch of his powerful, brawny body. It was there in the proud set of his shoulders as he stared into the darkness.
She saw it in the way he clenched his hands at his sides. How his knuckles whitened and even the air around him seemed to take note.
He cleared his throat, fisted his hands even tighter.
“I came here for the same reason I went to Hebridean House. I want to thank you for returning my tower’s stones.” He glanced at her and she could see the passion thrumming inside him. “For truth, lass, I am” – his beautiful voice caught, the sound squeezing her heart – “a bit at a loss to put words to my gratitude.
“A friend has been out there” – he flashed another look at the bay – “and he tells me the stones haven’t just been brought back, but that you’re having my home restored. Building it anew as if it’d ne’er been torn down?”
Mindy nodded, unable to speak.
She did swallow hard.
She hadn’t expected him to thank her. And her head was beginning to throb. He had it wrong. She didn’t deserve his gratitude. She wasn’t the one responsible for the restoration of his tower.
She was only the instrument.
The three ghosties from the Folly and their fellow ancestrals were behind it all. They were the ones who should be thanked.
Not her.
“I had nothing to do with it.” She blurted the truth before shame made it impossible to speak.