Must Love Kilts
Page 18
Transporting herself into Margo Menlove’s world to fetch her had nearly broken her, draining all her energy and leaving her almost powerless.
But she was resilient.
She’d recovered swiftly.
And even if her plans hadn’t gone quite as she’d hoped, bringing the end of Magnus MacBride, she now had a much higher goal.
It was an ambition that would wipe Magnus and his soon-to-be lover off the face of the earth.
She’d be done with them, and anyone else who dared to cross her.
She and Bone-Grinder could even rule the world.
If her energies hadn’t dwindled, preventing her from accompanying Margo into Magnus’s presence, she would have snatched the Cursing Stone then and there. But she’d seen the stone, and its power.
That was enough.
She would find a way to escape.
Then . . .
Donata pressed her hands against the small of her back and stretched, preening like a cat.
Unfortunately, the horrid clanging from St. Eithne’s bell tower signaled that the dinner hour was nigh.
Soon, light footsteps would patter up to her locked cell and then the small hatch in the door would slide open, a thin, pale face appearing to announce the arrival of her nightly gruel.
As always, Donata would assume a humble mien and accept the slop they gave her.
And when she’d suffered its taste, she’d return to her stool and her spellings. She’d work long into the small hours, plying her darkest magic. As the good sisters of St. Eithne’s slept, she’d spin her plans.
Soon, she’d be triumphant.
It was only a matter of time.
Chapter 13
Magnus’s men knew that he had kissed her.
Margo was sure of it.
No one said anything. Nor did any of them openly show disrespect. Even so, as she braced herself against the edge of the Sea-Raven’s steering platform, trying to keep her balance, she could feel their displeasure rippling the air. With one or two exceptions, they were horrified that their leader had succumbed to the wiles of a woman they believed to be a witch.
Just now the Sea-Raven rowed steadily through Loch Gairloch. But when they’d first surged away from shore and Magnus led her down the ship’s narrow center aisle to the bow platform so she could better watch the Sea-Raven ’s high-beaked prow slicing through the waves, more than one oarsman had pointedly leaned away from her as they’d passed.
The slights were infinitesimal.
Magnus hadn’t noticed.
Margo, whose heart had ever only beat for Scotland, wished the men didn’t find it so difficult to accept her. They didn’t need to like her, though that would be nice. A good start would’ve been for them to recognize that she wasn’t going to pull a tall black hat from behind her back and call out the flying monkeys.
Even if she wouldn’t mind the wicked little creatures buzzing overhead, keeping the Sea-Raven afloat.
Suspecting even flying monkeys would have trouble finding her here, not to mention a dragon ship with a crew of fierce-eyed, big-bearded men in mail, she drew a deep breath of the cold, salt air as they beat past Gairloch’s waterfront.
Had she really been there in her own time, just a short while ago?
It seemed impossible.
Inconceivable that Wee Hughie and everyone on the Heritage Tour could still be at the Old Harbour Inn, enjoying the Highland Night ceilidh. Even now, as the Sea-Raven sped her right by them. So close, but worlds and centuries apart, an impassable chasm yawning between.
Yet she’d made it. . . .
She glanced at Magnus, standing at the steering oar with Ewan and an older, kindly man introduced to her as Calum, Ewan’s grandfather.
“Do you need aught?” As Magnus met her gaze, the innocent contact shivered through her, making her face heat because she was sure he knew he just needed to look at her and she melted.
“A sip o’ uisge beatha?” He patted the leather-covered flask attached to his sword belt. “Fine Highland spirits to keep you warm?”
“No, thank you.” Margo almost choked.
If she were any warmer, she’d combust.
And if she imbibed anything as supposedly potent as early whisky, she’d surely get seasick.
What she needed—beyond the obvious, namely Magnus—was to be on solid ground again. She could see how some people might find speeding across the waves in a medieval warship exhilarating.
But she doubted she’d ever become a fan.
It was too darn scary.
The look of concern in Magnus’s eyes said he knew she was still terrified. True dread jellied her bones, and for that reason, she preferred thinking about his kiss. How she wished he’d deepened it, delectable as the kiss had been. Reliving the moment, and all the delicious sensations it’d stirred, kept her mind off the cold, empty water separated from her feet by only a few planks of medieval wood.
Margo shuddered, unable to help herself.
“We’ll be at Badachro soon.” His gaze was intense.
The implications of his words—that a small, firelit cottage and a pallet of plaids awaited them—made her even hotter than before.
She was sure her face must be glowing.
“Why no’ enjoy the view the while?” He nodded toward the harbor, already beginning to fall behind them. “Gairloch is a busy settlement.” Margo bit her tongue, wondering what he’d think of New York.
But Calum was leaning close to him now, speaking in his ear. So she did as he suggested, and turned to watch the little township glide past.
Chills swept her as she did.
The dark blue hills hugging the harbor were still there, same as when she’d walked along the quay.
Modern inconveniences—oh, how she loved the term—no longer dotted the shore. Instead, a straggle of squat, thatched-roof huts followed the same path as the coast road. And several large driftwood fires burned where she’d seen the crusty old fisherman step from a dockside warehouse. Rough-hewn, red-faced men worked the fires, using the smoke to dry fish. The docks were where she remembered, but now they were rickety wooden piers crowded with tubby medieval fishing and trading boats. One or two sleek medieval galleys, similar to Magnus’s Sea-Raven, were moored close by.
It was like a movie set.
Only real-life.
This was the dream of a lifetime for her, made even more perfect by the rolling mist beginning to slide down the cliffs and drift across the loch’s glassy black surface.
Margo’s heart began to pound.
She’d never tire of Highland mist. It swirled and glistened, a shimmering gossamer veil, softening the day. This was a still world full of natural sound and iridescence, showing her the origin of every sentimental myth about the Highlands. She glanced at Magnus, her gaze skimming over the hard line of his jaw and cheekbones, and, because she’d been thinking of his kiss, his incredibly sensuous mouth.
She admired his long, black hair streaming in the wind, his broad shoulders limned against the steep blue hills. His arm rings flashed bright, rivaling the gleaming white crests of each swell creaming past the Sea-Raven. Her awareness of Magnus beside her was so strong that her pulse raced. He truly belonged here, in this beautiful, timeless place.
Watching him with such grandeur all around them helped her to ignore the long lines of dangerous-looking breakers rolling in from the open sea.
Until an outraged bellow shattered the peace.
“Hand o’er my shirt or you’ll go to sleep this night as a woman!”
Margo started, whirling around to see the short, wiry man she’d noticed earlier brandishing a dirk at the belly of a larger man. Nimbly, the smaller man hopped about in front of his foe, his stature giving him an advantage in the aisle’s narrow space.
The big man held a tattered rag aloft, waving it out of the little man’s reach. “’Tis mad you are, Dugan, keeping a shirt after the Greer witch cursed it. I’ll have my wife sew you a new one. She—”
“Magnus! Please, do something.” Margo flashed a glance at him. But he only winked and cut the air with a hand, the gesture telling her the two men fought often and perhaps gladly.
Still. . .
Margo didn’t like it. Roughhousing was one thing.
Men going at each other with knives was something else altogether and she didn’t want to see blood spill.
She’d seen enough bloodshed at the little strand in Gairloch.
“Two ales with Orla and you can have your smelly shirt.” The big man kept the prize in the air.
Dugan, who obviously possessed an extra shirt, for he wasn’t bare-chested, roared and made another fastwristed flourish with his dirk. This time, he sliced the big man’s plaid, though he didn’t draw blood.
“You can buy your own ale from Orla.” He was still dancing about, his blade flashing. “I’ll have my shirt.
And it’s no’ cursed, it isn’t. The smears are mud Donata threw at us when we took her to St. Eithne’s.
They’re no’ witchy-curse stains, you fool.”
“Then why can’t the laundresses get rid of them, eh?
They’re the devil’s hoofprints, they are.” The big man balled the shirt in his fist, making to pitch it into the water.
“Nae! Dinnae do it!” True panic filled Dugan’s eyes.
Dropping his dagger, he flew at the other man just as he drew back his arm.
“Wait!” Margo sprinted down the aisle, grabbing the big man’s arm before she could think through her actions. Surprise worked in her favor and she easily plucked the shirt from his grasp.
“Saints o’ mercy!” The giant leapt backward, stumbling over an oar bench in his haste to get away from her.
Dugan accepted the shirt when she handed it to him, his flushed face showing a strange mix of fear and appreciation. “It do be my best shirt, see?” He smoothed the soiled cloth over his arm. “I dinnae care that it has mud stains. It brings me good luck.”
“Everyone needs that.” Margo smiled at him, pleased when the fear eased from his face. “I could use some good luck, too, see? But”—she decided to take a chance—“I do know something that might get the stains out of your shirt.”
Dugan’s eyes rounded. “The laundresses have tried to clean it twice now. And”—he shook his head—“my own wife has washed it three times.”
“Then tell her to try again, this time when the moon is waning.” Margo suspected the shirt had been washed at full or waxing moon, the worst possible time to get rid of stains. “If she does, using very little soap and lots of clean, fresh water, I’m sure the smears will disappear.”
If they didn’t, she might be toast.
But as a Luna Harmonist, she did know how to take advantage of the moon’s helpful rhythms and cycle.
Waning moon was the best time for housework and laundry.
It was worth a try.
“Waning moon, eh?” Dugan cocked his head, eyeing her.
At the steering oar, Magnus looked amused.
Margo stood straighter. “That’s right. Your wife can come to me if she has any questions.”
“I’ll tell her, I will.” The little man actually bowed. Then he scuttled off down the aisle, making for his place on the rowing benches. He turned back to her before he sat down. “I thank you, Lady Margo.”
“My pleasure.” Margo struggled to speak past the thickness in her throat.
Who would’ve thought a little man named Dugan would make her cry?
Or help her break the ice with Magnus’s crew?
“That was well-done.”
Magnus spoke from just behind her, close by her ear. Her heart leapt. She could feel his warmth flowing into her as he placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him.
“I didnae ken you were no’ just bonnie but also a champion for the needy.” His voice went a shade deeper, the words meant for her alone.
“Dugan didn’t strike me as needy.” Margo looked up at him, wondering if he’d guess how needy she was. “He could’ve done some serious damage with his dagger if he’d wanted.”
“He wouldn’t have because he and Brodie are good friends.” He kept his hands on her shoulders and the connection sent spools of pleasure through her.
“Brodie would’ve still hurled the shirt into the sea. He’s superstitious and thinks Donata cursed the shirt.” Margo shivered, almost as if a cloud had passed over the sun.
“Did she really throw mud at Dugan?” She could believe it.
“Donata fights like a hellcat when riled.” Magnus circled his thumbs lightly across her neck, intensifying physical sensations that already felt unbearably sensual. “Mud, sticks, rocks, anything she could get her hands on, I’m told. I wasn’t there when my men took her to St. Eithne’s, a nunnery where she’s now kept under guard in a cell.”
“Yet she appeared to me.” Margo frowned, his touch making it difficult to think. “I saw her likeness.”
“You did.” He stepped back, ran a hand through his hair. “No’ Donata out of her cell at St. Eithne’s, but her wickedness cast in a spell-conjured guise.” Margo shuddered. “That makes her the more dangerous because she can’t be contained.”
“So we could say, aye.”
His face cleared then, and a smile twitched at the corner of his lips. “This day is full of wonders.” Margo blinked. “What?”
“Here’s you, standing midship in the aisle and no’ reaching for a handhold.” He rubbed his chin, observing her. “Truth is, you’re no’ even swaying.”
“Oh!” Margo lurched crazily, grabbing for him before she fell. “I can’t—”
“You were doing fine until I told you.” He took her arm, leading her past the men at the rowing benches and into the soft darkness cast by the sailcloth shelter at the Sea-Raven’s stern platform.
He released her only long enough to undo the ties at the edge of the makeshift tent. The heavy flap dropped into place, separating them from the long center aisle and the men on the rowing benches.
“That is better.” His voice roughened as he checked the flap, apparently making certain it fell properly.
“We’ll be in open water soon. You’ll be protected here.”
When he turned back to her, his eyes darkened and he started across the small space between them. A sliver of light slanted through a corner of the shelter, glinting off the bright steel of his long sword. The sight made her heart race, reminding her who he was and when they were.
She bit her lip, inhaling deeply.
He came closer, his gaze never leaving hers.
“Margo.”
The way he said her name, Mar-go, the last two letters rising on a lilt after he rolled the r, almost undid her. Her heart tumbled in her chest. An aching hunger began somewhere deep inside her. Fierce and insistent, it wound so tight she feared she’d break.
He was still looking at her, but she couldn’t speak.
Then he was right in front of her, so near that she wasn’t sure if the loud roar in her ears was her own blood racing, or his.
“You are a wonder. And I . . .” He trailed off, shaking his head.
Margo scanned his face, expectant, hoping.
“I dinnae ken what to make of you.” His tone roughened even more. “I do want you.” Once again, he set his hands on her shoulders and stood peering down at her. The shelter’s closed flap muted the creak and splash of the ship’s oars, and even the grunts of the straining rowers. But the intimacy cast by the dim, tightly confined space was fiercely loud. Vivid awareness pulsed between them, thickening the air. Anticipation, excitement, all kinds of heady emotions, swelled and eddied around them, making words unnecessary.
Margo could tell he felt the same potent energy.
She could hardly breathe.
“Tell me, lass. . . .” He lifted a section of her hair, letting t
he strands glide across his fingers. “If Dugan’s woman washes his shirt by the dark moon, will Donata’s mud smears truly disappear?”
“They should.” Margo tried not to sigh as his knuckles skimmed her cheek. “The wax and wane of the moon affects every aspect of our lives. All of nature bends to her rhythms and cycles. Those who observe and”—he was tunneling his fingers through her hair now, luscious sensations blurring everything but his caress—“study the moon can do much to help others if they so choose.”
“Are you a wisewoman?” His tone held amusement.
Margo was glad he hadn’t said witch.
“No.” She met his gaze, almost intoxicated by his touch. “I am a woman who has always been fascinated by the moon and made the effort to learn what I could. In my”—she started to say other life, but bit back the words because the whole situation still felt so unreal—“hometown, New Hope, I worked as a Luna Harmonist, advising those who came to me.”
“So you are a spaewife.” A smile lightly tugged on his mouth.
“No, I’m not.” Margo shook her head. If she were a wisewoman, she’d work a spell that would keep her from getting zapped back into her seat on the Sword of Somerled tour bus. “I’m simply a—”
“You are a beautiful woman who smells of cold winter snow and roses.” He closed his eyes briefly and inhaled, as if savoring her scent. When he looked at her again, he touched her face, tracing the back of his hand along the curving line of her cheek.
He rested the whole of his hand against the side of her face. “You are fond of the moon.”
“I am.” She took a breath as sensual heat built between them. Prickling tingles ignited along her skin, sweet rivers of molten warmth flowing all down her body, rousing and soothing her.
She looked at him, seeing the hard pulse beat at his jaw. He wanted her as much as she desired him.
And it wasn’t just intense physical attraction. It was more. It was something incredibly powerful from deep within their innermost selves. Maybe from the farthest reaches of their souls, corny as that sounded.
Margo liked corny.
She was an old-fashioned kind of girl.
Her mother used to say that she had been born old.