Must Love Kilts

by Allie Mackay

  “Is that where you saw me in the realm of the dead?” Magnus gave him an equally hard look.

  “Peering in the steam off your cauldron?”

  “I could’ve seen what I did in the bottom o’ my ale cup.” Orosius didn’t budge from the door. “Where and what I saw changes naught.”

  “It does if the woman you saw wasn’t Liana.” Magnus half turned to glance at the dark clouds racing in from the sea. Thunder sounded in the distance and cold wind thrashed the red-berried rowan tree next to Orosius’s cottage. “I say”—he swung back around to fix the seer with a stare—“your scrying showed me in the thrall of a she-demon summoned by Donata Greer, the sorceress.”

  Orosius thrust his chin. “I dinnae mistake what’s shown to me.”

  “Let me see what you saw and we’ll know.”

  “Begad!” Orosius looked horrified. “Suchlike would flatten me for days. You dinnae ken the power needed to share even a glimmer of what I see.”

  “You showed me how Liana died.” Magnus’s voice hardened.

  “That was long ago and she came to me in a dream, wanting to reach you.” Orosius’s eyes gleamed with defiance. “If she wished to be seen now, she would’ve shown me more than the back of her head.”

  “You didn’t see Liana.” Magnus was sure of it.

  “Humph.” Orosius snorted.

  Magnus frowned. The seer was his last hope.

  And the cantankerous lout’s foul mood grated on his nerves.

  Orosius was an ogre.

  And Magnus was weary of him. He also pushed past him into the low-ceilinged cottage. A small fire burned in the central hearth, where Orosius’s black kettle hung on a chain above the smoldering peats. It was there that Frodi chose to sprawl on the stone-flagged floor.

  Orosius went to stand beside the dog. The red glow from the peat lit his hulking form, making him look even bigger, almost like an oversized troll with his large nose and wild hair. “Bad things happen when folk go poking into things they aren’t meant to be a-seeing.”

  “I’ll take my chances.” Magnus folded his arms. “Say your scrying words.”

  “Mayhap I’m no’ of a mind to see your nekkid arse again.” Orosius balked. “Once was enough.”

  “Dinnae test me, Orosius. One glimpse is all I’m asking. Then I’ll be on my way.”

  “And I’ll have my peat?”

  “Aye, and as much as Ewan and two lads can cut in a day.”

  The seer pulled on his beard, considering. “I’m descended from a long line of sages. ...” He paused to glance at the steam rising above his cauldron.

  “They watch o’er me. I’m no’ sure they’d approve. The lass was bare-bottomed and—”

  “And you saw me having her, what?” Magnus stepped forward, going toe to toe with Orosius.

  “That’s what Calum told me. Will you be denying it?”

  “Nae.” Orosius reddened.

  “Then”—Magnus leaned close—“you’ll no’ be showing me aught that I haven’t already seen.” Orosius spluttered.

  Magnus grinned and held out his hands, palms downward. “Take my hands now. Put your feet o’er mine. That’s how you did it last time.”

  “Botheration!” The seer snapped his bushy black brows together in a fierce scowl. But he placed his hands on top of Magnus’s and dutifully rested his toes over Magnus’s own.

  Then he closed his eyes as he muttered a string of nonsensical words. When he stopped chanting and opened his eyes again to peer into the steam, Magnus knew the seer was looking into another world.

  Magnus saw nothing.

  Until Orosius’s hands began to tremble and a peat brick popped, sending up a shower of sparks to join the cauldron’s whirling steam. In that moment, the heavy black kettle and even the cottage’s peat-stained walls vanished, leaving only clouds of glittering blue-white smoke that swirled around Magnus and the seer.

  Magnus’s nape prickled.

  Then the air shivered, the mist parted, and his breath caught, the world seeming to stand still, as he gazed upon a beautiful crystalline landscape that could’ve been the domain of the gods.

  It was a lofty headland, luxuriantly wooded and stretching forever. Soft afternoon light slanted across trees dressed in autumnal scarlet and gold, while cloud shadows dappled a sea of endless moors.

  Rich, heather-clad hills rolled into the distance, finally melting into shimmering blue at the edge of sight.

  And in the midst of the sunlit haze, Magnus saw himself lying on his plaid as a beautiful, lushly curved woman rode him to ecstasy. Her sleek thighs gripped his hips, and the way she held her head tilted to the sky showed how much she enjoyed being astride him.

  They were both naked, their clothes strewn about the heather as if they’d undressed hurriedly. And from where Magnus looked on, the woman had her back to him, just as Orosius had claimed.

  Her body gleamed in the strange golden light, and her full, sweetly curved bottom moved with a fluid rhythm that made Magnus’s blood surge with urgent, almost feral need. Fair, shining hair swung about her shoulders. And even without seeing her face, he knew she’d have creamy, flawless skin and huge sapphire eyes.

  He recognized her without question.

  She wasn’t Liana.

  She was the Valkyrie.

  And it wasn’t her shorn hair that gave her away, though her lack of Liana’s hip-length tresses should’ve alerted Orosius to his error. Nor was it her ripe shapeliness where Liana had been so slight.

  It was her intensity.

  Her passion singed the air, burning him.

  It was torture to see her yet not feel the hot, silken glide of her naked skin against his. Tormented, he ached to know the slick wetness of her woman’s flesh as she rode him. Magnus stared at her, his loins heavy with longing. When her body arched and he saw a shiver ripple through her, he didn’t care if Sword Breaker had paid Donata to conjure her. Or even if the sorceress had summoned her on her own, to punish Magnus for her brother’s death.

  All he knew was that he wanted her.

  She rose and fell above him, the sight making a ragged breath catch in his throat.

  He needed to see her breasts. Cup their fullness and taste her nipples ...

  “Damnation!” He jerked away from the seer and strode forward, straight into the fire.

  The image shattered, spinning away in a burst of blue-white sparks.

  Darkness swirled, blotting the world.

  Magnus tripped, his foot colliding with one of the stones edging the fire. He couldn’t see beyond the deep, whirling shadows.

  “You great lackwit!” Orosius grabbed his arm, yanking him back just as he crashed into the heavy black cauldron on its chain.

  Frodi leapt to his feet, bolting away as scalding broth sloshed over the kettle’s rim. The liquid missed Magnus’s legs, but spilled onto the hot peats with a loud zishing sound. Smeary ash covered Magnus’s feet, and puffs of soot floated in the air, drifting down onto Orosius’s stew, ruining his meal.

  The seer glared at him. “I told you no good comes from peering at things no’ meant to be seen again.

  You wasted a good morn and spoiled my supper, you did. Now you can take your pestering self and—”

  “The runes.” Magnus glanced at a lumpy leather pouch on the table. “Cast the runesticks for me. I need to know who the woman is.”

  Orosius planted his bulk between Magnus and the scarred wooden table. “You had your look and now I’ll be having my sleep. Thon beauty was Liana.” He folded his arms. “Herself, and you, in the realm o’ souls.”

  Magnus knew better.

  He wiped a hand over his brow. His head was beginning to ache worse than if he’d drunk a barrel of soured ale. “Liana was an innocent, you he-goat.” He put back his shoulders, not liking the smirk on the seer’s face. “She wouldn’t—”

  “Pah.” Orosius waved off the objection. “Mayhap you teach her the like after you join her in the otherworld?”

  “Tha
t was Badcall, no cloudland of the dead.” Magnus brushed past the seer to scoop the rune bag off the table. He thrust the pouch into Orosius’s hands.

  “I’ll leave after you cast the runes.”

  “Ho!” Orosius’s eyes narrowed, cagily. “Rune casting is heathen Norse magic. Pagan sorcery, you scolded, last time I shook out my sticks in your hall.” Magnus frowned, remembering. “You said they speak true.”

  “Aye, so I did.”

  “Then cast them.”

  The seer lifted a brow. “You may not like what they say.”

  “I don’t care for any of this.” Magnus could feel annoyance inching along his nerves. “I only want the truth.”

  “So be it.” Turning to the table, Orosius opened the pouch and withdrew the runesticks. Gleaming white, they were bundled by a red silk thread. Orosius set his fingers to the string, but he glanced once more at Magnus before he released the slender sticks.

  “Do it.” Magnus nodded.

  Orosius closed his eyes and held out the runesticks.

  Then he opened his hand, letting them clatter onto the table. Leaning forward, he peered at the jumbled sticks for a long time. At last, he straightened and turned to face Magnus.

  “The runes have spoken.” Orosius’s tone made the cottage seem gray and cold.

  “And what did the sticks say?”

  “What I knew they would.”

  Magnus’s stomach knotted. “And what was that?”

  “That the maid—”

  “You mean Donata’s temptress.” Magnus wanted clarity.

  Orosius scowled. “The sticks didn’t choose to show me who she is. Though”—he swelled his great chest—“I’m still for thinking she’s Liana.” Magnus glanced at the fallen sticks, then back at the seer. “Just tell me what the runes said.” Looking annoyed, Orosius drew a long breath. “That the maid,” he repeated, “is nowhere you can reach her. You could search the whole world in its length and breadth and not find her.

  “She is”—Orosius’s silvery eyes met Magnus’s—“beyond this realm.”

  Magnus looked back at him. “That’s all?” The seer nodded.

  And it was then that the truth hit Magnus, settling on his shoulders like a weighted cloak.

  He didn’t care who, or what, the naked woman was.

  But it did bother him that the runes said she was beyond his reach.

  And that could only mean what he’d dreaded.

  He was cursed.

  In her own world, Margo lay as still as she could beneath her bedcovers. Night noises sifted through the curtains, but the scratch of tree branches against the wall and the rattle of rain on the window weren’t what she wanted to hear. She especially resented the tick-tick-tick ing of her bedside clock and the distant wail of a siren.

  She’d have preferred the sound of wind and waves.

  She’d rather be standing atop high black cliffs that dropped to a dark, foaming sea. She’d hoped to reclaim her earlier dream, slipping into a place where she could breathe in cold, streaming air that smelled of heather, peat, and salt spray. Her beloved Highlands, where Magnus MacBride would be waiting for her, eager to answer her passion with his own.

  Instead . . .

  She felt the weight of twenty-first-century America close in on her. The siren’s whir faded, but—somewhere—the annoying rumble of a garbage truck replaced the noise. She frowned, wanting to forget the asphalt and concrete world outside her bedroom and return to the peace of the sea- and landscape of her fantasy. She’d read somewhere that a shattered dream could be retrieved if the dreamer didn’t move before falling back asleep.

  She hoped cracking her eyes didn’t count as moving.

  But something jarring had wakened her and she needed to be sure she was alone in the deep grayness filling her presunrise bedroom.

  If—horrors!—five thirty a.m. could even be considered early morning.

  As a dyed-in-the-wool night owl and with Patience allowing her to begin work at noon, Margo rarely wakened before nine. Anything earlier was the middle of the night to her. And weird noises that intruded into her sleeping hours were not looked on with kindness.

  Such disturbances could also be dangerous.

  New Hope wasn’t a crime hub. And the Fieldstone House had never been burgled. The old house and its gardens felt safe, always. Margo believed the land possessed a sanctuary-like aura. As if no harm could touch anyone who lived within the property’s rambling bounds.

  Even so ...

  She clutched the edge of her comforter, digging her fingers into the soft, downy warmth of the splurged-on duvet she’d restyled with yards of Isle of Skye tartan, nabbed off the bargain table at Aging Gracefully.

  Margo peered into the darkness, her body still.

  Blessedly, nothing stirred anywhere.

  She hadn’t been awakened by an as yet unheard of Bucks County serial killer.

  Satisfied, she snuggled back against her pillows and nestled deeper beneath her plaid comforter. She needed only to focus. So she concentrated on images she wanted to see. Mist rolling down steep, rocky hillsides, then flashes of autumn-red bracken, the deep purple of heather. Nothing happened, but anticipation made her heart beat fast and hard. Soon, she’d catch a whiff of heather, the mist would swirl, and she’d see her proud Highland warrior. She tried to imagine him standing with one foot on a boulder, his dark head tilted back as he stared up at the cloud-veiled sun. Steel would glint at his side and strength would pour off him as he gripped his sword hilt, all arrogance and challenge.

  For the space of a dream, bliss would be hers ...

  She closed her eyes, trying to get there.

  But just when the Highland scene began to rise around her and she thought she might drift away to the distant place she loved so much, a shrill noise rang out in the silver-misted air.

  It was her cell phone.

  And the persistence of its tinny rendition of

  “Scotland the Brave” dashed her hopes, grounding her in the real world of her darkened bedroom.

  Margo sat bolt upright and glared at the clock on her bedside table. The alarm’s glowing green hands told her that it was just five forty-five a.m. Not even six o’clock. If she had any doubts, a glance at her window showed that it was still darkest night outside.

  Not even the tiniest shimmer of light seeped through her drawn curtains.

  Yet her cell phone’s imitation bagpipes kept screaming.

  And she was going to kill whoever had the nerve to call at such an ungodly hour.

  Grabbing the phone, she flipped it open and slapped it to her ear. “Who is this?”

  “Margo! Finally. ” Marta Lopez’s voice held a touch of hysteria. “I’ve been trying to reach you all night.”

  “Oh?” Margo’s annoyance turned to apprehension.

  “I’ve been calling nearly every hour, on the hour, since midnight.” Marta sounded breathy, excited. “I know you’re a sound sleeper, so I let it ring.”

  “I was sleeping deeply.” Margo’s irritation returned.

  Now she knew what had wakened her earlier. “What’s so important that—” She broke off, a terrible thought rushing her. Marta didn’t sound upset, but still...

  Margo braced herself. “Has something happened to Patience?”

  “No.” Marta actually laughed. “It’s nothing to do with her, though she was with me when—”

  “When what?” Margo prodded, not wanting her friend to launch into one of her drawn-out spiels. Marta could be theatrical. And much too long-winded if not checked. “What’s happened?”

  Marta took a breath. “This afternoon, after Patience and I left the shop, we were having high tea at the Cabbage Rose Gift Emporium and Tea Room out near Valley Forge.”

  “I know.” Margo pulled a pillow onto her lap.

  “We ran into Ardelle Goodnight of Aging Gracefully as we were leaving. She invited us to her place to see some vintage caftans before she puts them on sale.

  She thinks they
’ll sell quickly and she thought Patience or I might want a few of them. So—”

  “You woke me up in the middle of the night to talk about caftans?”

  Marta laughed again. “Of course I didn’t, you silly bean. I called about Scotland.”

  “Scotland?” Margo felt her eyes rounding.

  “Yep.” Marta’s grin came down the line. “Your beloved Highlands and all that. Those heather hills may not be as far off as you think.”

  “What?” Margo was all ears now. “What does Scotland have to do with Ardelle Goodnight and her caftans?”

  “Only that”—Marta managed to make her voice sound like a drumroll—“Ardelle mentioned she’d run into Donald McVittie and he—”

  “Donald McVittie?” Margo scooted up higher against her bed’s headboard.

  Donald McVittie was a great kilted teddy bear of a balding, beer-bellied American Scottish male who owned and ran New Hope’s premier Scottish shop, A Dash o’ Plaid.

  Margo liked him.

  Especially as Donald saw it as his duty to the Auld Hameland to quicken shop visitors’ interest in Highland culture, whether or not they made a purchase. He was also a sponsor of Bucks County’s annual Scottish Festival. For people like Margo who couldn’t afford a plane ticket to Glasgow, the event was the next-best thing to being there.

  Donald’s A Dash o’ Plaid stall was always her favorite stop at the fair.

  Margo adjusted the phone against her ear. “Is Donald looking for help at his booth?” The festival was soon, only a week or so away. Margo had pitched in a time or two in the past. A Dash o’ Plaid was popular.

  “If so, and if Patience can spare me, then—”

  “No, no—it’s nothing like that.” Marta was waving a hand in the air. Margo knew from the tone of her friend’s voice. “Donald is doing a raffle at the Scottish Festival.

  “He’s giving away lots of neat things. But the grand prize is”—Marta’s voice rose—“a trip to Scotland!”

  “Oh, my God!” Margo’s heart hit her ribs. “You’re joking, right?”

  “Not a word.” Marta went all excited again. “Wait a minute. I wrote down the details. ...” Margo heard rustling noises through the phone. Then Marta was back on the line, sounding triumphant. “One lucky soul will win a guided coach tour that’ll hit all of Scotland’s classic sites. Highlights are castles, Loch Ness, and”—there was a sound like a finger moving down a piece of paper—“Culloden Battlefield. The outfit running the trip is Heritage Tours, one of most respected touring companies in Scotland.”