Must Love Kilts

by Allie Mackay

  It had been her left-brained, nonfanciful, full-of-logic, parent’s way of expressing what Margo preferred to think of as being born out of place and time.

  Now she was where she should have been all along. The man she knew she could love through this life and many more was caressing her face and had just said she smelled like clean, cold air and summer roses.

  And all she could worry about was accepting a sliver of happiness only to have her luck rear up and snatch it right back from her.

  Such things happened in life.

  She could almost feel old Murphy—of Murphy’s Law—slinking around her and Magnus, watching and waiting, rubbing his hands in anticipation.

  Pushing her old nemesis from her mind, she returned to a more dangerous one. “Do you think we should return to Gairloch later and look for the Cursing Stone? I doubt we’d find it. Not now, but—”

  “I ordered one of my ships to stay there so the crew could scour the strand.” He lifted a brow, watching her.

  “Did you no’ see they didn’t leave with us?”

  “No.” She hadn’t seen anything except great sheets of sea spray flying along the Sea-Raven’s hull and the two screaming red and black raven heads mounted on the prows. She hadn’t wanted to even glance at the other ships, each one equally fearsome.

  “Aye, well.” He ran one finger down the side of her neck and back up again, as if learning the texture of her. “They’re there now, searching. If they find the stone, they’ll take it to the edge of the sea and sink it.

  Such powerful magic has no place here.

  “There are too many black-hearted, greed-filled men and dark souls like Donata who’d use such a stone for evil.” He frowned, looking fierce again.

  “Orosius instructed my men, telling them what to seek.

  Though he warned they’d only turn up similar-looking stones.”

  “He’s right.” Margo recalled everything she’d read about the stones. “Highland Cursing Stones only reveal themselves when they wish, or so the legends claim. Their powers are boundless. If they feel threatened in any way and wish to hide, they’re said to be able to conjure countless twin stones in less than an eye blink.

  “Some folklorists even believe Cursing Stones can vanish and reappear elsewhere, many miles from their original location. Though ...”

  Margo paused when he cupped her face again, the heat of his palm branding her. She wanted to lean into his hand, beg him not to break the contact. She was so aware of his nearness—so close their breath mingled—that the intimate sharing began to make her sex clench, even now.

  “Though?” He lifted a brow, waiting.

  “Ah . . .” Margo shifted, urgent need rising inside her. She half wondered if he’d worked some kind of desire spell on her.

  She cleared her throat. “As powerful as Donata’s magic is, perhaps she can route its energy? I’ll never know if it was her curse or the stone that brought me here. If she possessed the stone, she’ll want it back. If the stone wasn’t hers and she saw what happened, she’ll be after it, hoping to harness the magic.” Magnus frowned. “Stronger guards will be set on her at St. Eithne’s. She’ll ne’er have an unobserved moment to weave her dark craft.”

  Margo wasn’t so sure.

  She remembered how the vortex-image’s eyes had turned silver. The fireball she’d snatched out of thin air and thrown into the sea. Margo felt a chill sweep down her spine, the hiss of the fireball hitting the water ringing again in her ears. Donata practiced the blackest of magic and her skills could be unparalleled.

  “She frightens me.” She hadn’t meant to admit it.

  “You have naught to fear.” He took her face in his hands, looking deep into her eyes. “Donata needs to be afraid, no’ you. If she so much as breathes an ill wish your way, I’ll have her taken to a worse place than St. Eithne’s. There are grimmer keepers than the good sisters of thon nunnery.

  “She cannae touch you here.” He stroked her cheek, holding her gaze. “You are safe here.”

  “Your men—” Margo broke off, her face flaming.

  She bit her tongue, not wanting to cause trouble on his ship.

  “No one will hurt you.” He slid his hands to her waist, his strong fingers gripping her through the thick pelt of the bearskin. “They know better,” he vowed, holding her firmly as the Sea-Raven plunged into a trough and then shot up the other side. “I spare no man who does harm to a woman. No one.”

  He spoke fiercely, the hardness in his eyes proving his words.

  Margo nodded. She started to take a deep, calming breath when the Sea-Raven pitched again, hurtling down another steep trough, the timbers screaming as sea spray doused the sides of the sailcloth.

  “Agggh!” Margo threw her arms around his neck, clinging.

  “It’s nothing, lass. A few ripples, no more.” He made light of the huge seas. But he kept one arm locked around her, a solid band of iron. He braced his other hand on the side of the steering platform, trapping her in the shelter of his powerful arms.

  They were so close now, his breath against her face, his lips almost touching hers. “Oh, dear . . .” Margo twisted her fingers in his hair as sensations rushed through her. “I think . . .” She couldn’t finish.

  “Margo. Valkyrie. ” He inhaled sharply, tensing as his expression changed, his eyes darkening with a look she could describe only as raw, savage need.

  Then he growled deep in his throat and pulled her roughly against him. His mouth crashed down on hers, hard and fast, and he kissed her deeply. Nothing like the soft, sensual kiss he’d first given her—this was a bold, devouring kiss, and so heady that everything around her dimmed. Nothing existed except his plundering mouth on hers, the wild tangle of their tongues, and the feel of his strong, muscle-packed body pressed against her.

  “O-o-oh . . .” She melted into him, tasting his passion and the heat of his desire, in every hot swirl of his tongue. He pulled her tighter against him, deepening the kiss, so his mouth almost crushed hers. Their breath mingled and it was glorious, the intimacy sending fiery need racing through her veins.

  She sighed in pleasure, encouraging him, wanting more. He smelled of the sea, plaid, and woodsmoke.

  An intoxicating blend so rich, earthy, and masculine that she felt almost dizzy. She drank him in greedily.

  She also felt the hard swell of his arousal nudging her belly. Even through her cloak, his need for her was strong, insistent. And such tangible proof of his desire filled her with feminine triumph.

  She wanted him so badly.

  She tingled everywhere, thrilling waves of excitement rolling over and through her body, the force of her desire throbbing at her core. A low, purely female cry escaped her as she clung to him. Heart hammering, she returned his tongue-tangling kisses, lost in the tantalizing haze of their abandon. He kept kissing her, his mouth more demanding now, hot and ravenous as he claimed her.

  Until the waters around them settled and the Sea-Raven stopped pitching wildly. The calmer course worked like an upturned bucket of ice water as he stiffened and broke the kiss, setting her away from stiffened and broke the kiss, setting her away from him.

  “Sorry, lass. I shouldn’t have done that. No’ just now, at sea.” He stepped back, shoved both hands through his hair. “I need to keep you safe out here, no’ allow my need for you to distract me.

  “These waters are killing grounds.” His face turned fierce again and he glanced at the closed sailcloth flap. “No place for females, nowhere along this coast.” Margo hardly heard him. She pressed a hand to her breast, needing to calm herself. Arousal still swirled inside her neediest places, urgent and demanding.

  She took a deep, shaky breath, her gaze locked on his, her heart thundering against her ribs.

  No one had ever kissed her so fiercely.

  She’d heard of hard, bruising kisses. Now she knew the glory of them. And she craved more, her body responding even now to the residual pleasure washing through her.

  He lo
oked at her, sensual heat still pouring off him.

  Like her, he’d clearly not wished to abandon their pleasure. Even so, his brows were down-drawn with concern. “I’ll no’ let aught happen to you.”

  “I’m not afraid.” She wasn’t. She knew he’d keep her safe, always.

  “You needn’t be, I’ve told you.” He smoothed back her hair, his touch giving her another rush of delicious tingles. “But the dangers exist. I cannae allow myself to forget them.”

  He stepped closer again, his powerful, ring-banded arms reaching for her. He gripped her shoulders, staring down at her as his heady male scent rose between them. Her legs weakened, need sweeping her anew. In the closed space, his scent was high, the earthy blend as intoxicatingly Highland as peat fire and heather.

  Margo swallowed, aching for him so badly.

  Breathing him in was heaven, but it was still not nearly enough.

  His eyes were heating again. The blaze of hunger she saw there made her want nothing more than to feel his powerful male body against her again. More than that, she wanted to lie with him. She burned to have him deep inside her, possessing and completing her.

  She’d never needed a man so desperately.

  His fierce hold on her shoulders said he felt the same about her.

  “Magnus ...” She lifted her hand to trace the hard line of his jaw, her fingers then lighting softly across his mouth, lingering there. He flicked his tongue over her fingertips, nipping her skin. The contact shivered clear to her toes, sweeping her so close to an orgasm.

  Then he frowned and seized her wrist, lowering her arm. “I cannae do this now, lass.”

  “Please.” Margo was prepared to beg. Any moment now she was going to shatter, breaking into a gazillion tiny pieces.

  He released her wrist, glancing again at the shelter flap.

  “I need to be with my men, at the steering oar.” He didn’t move, his gaze burning her. “My crew will. . .

  Damnation!” He pulled her roughly against him, grasping the back of her head as he slanted his mouth over hers in another breath-stealing, knee-weakening kiss. His arm locked around her, holding her so tight she could feel the pounding of his heart.

  Then he tore his mouth from hers, all medieval warlord again. “This night, at Badachro, we’ll finish this.” His promise made her pulse quicken. His gaze swept over her possessively, as if he knew exactly what was hidden beneath her cloak.

  “I’ll leave you for now, sweet.” He pressed his hand to her cheek, and then stepped away. “This sailcloth isn’t just for your privacy. Northmen ply these waters and I’m no’ of a mind to fight them with you on board.

  They’d come like bees to a hive if they spotted your bright head amongst my ugly, bushy-bearded crewmen.

  “I’ll no’ see your life risked.” He gripped his sword hilt, the same huge medieval blade he’d raised to the skies in the book illustration. “It’s no’ that much farther to the inlet we’re seeking. Stay in here until I come for you.”

  “I will.” Margo nodded, fear beginning to claw at her again.

  A sea battle with Vikings wasn’t something she wanted to experience.

  “I know you’ll look out for me.” She did, but his warning put a knot in her chest. “There haven’t been any Vikings about, have there? Not since we were at

  ...” She let her voice trail off, not wanting to mention the Cursing Stone and the brutal scene at the strand.

  He’d been about to throw open the shelter flap, but instead his hand fisted, the heavy cloth bunching beneath his fingers. “The Northmen are aye about, lass. Their pagan hordes are in these waters now, even though we haven’t seen them. They hide in the mist and behind rocky islets along the shore, flashing out from nowhere to surprise their chosen prey.

  “They’re devils who’d do more than hurt you if you fell into their hands. Things so vile that”—a dark shadow crossed his face—“you might be tempted to escape the horror any way you could.

  “I’ll no’ let that happen.” His gaze was burning now, and a muscle twitched at his left eye. “No woman should suffer their depredations.”

  “I’m not afraid.” That wasn’t true, but it didn’t matter.

  He hadn’t heard her.

  He was looking into a past she couldn’t see. And when his jaw clenched and he gripped his sword hilt tighter, so hard that his knuckles shone white, she suddenly knew what fueled his rage.

  A woman.

  The revelation sent waves of jealousy crashing through her, needle-sharp and dazzling green. The thought of him kissing another woman as he’d just kissed her made her feel sick inside. Imagining him making love to someone else—she knew he’d be incredible in bed—was beyond bearing. Knowing he’d loved someone felt like a knife to her heart.

  And she knew she was a terrible person for feeling that way.

  But she couldn’t help it.

  She wanted him for her own.

  “The Vikings killed your wife, didn’t they?” Margo knew she was going to hell because the words your wife tasted so sour on her tongue.

  The title held power because his eyes widened and he jerked as if someone his own size and strength had punched him in the gut.

  She’d give anything to be the woman who’d meant so much to him.

  “I dinnae have a wife.” His voice was terse, cold as if it came from a distant, frozen place. Somewhere he didn’t like remembering. “My betrothed took her own life before raiding Vikings could rape her.” The shadow returned to his face and stayed there this time, etching darkness across his proud, chiseled features. “She thrust a dagger into her belly, preferring death to being whored by the Northmen who burned her village.”

  “Dear God.” Margo stared at him.

  “It was Orosius who learned the truth of her death.” He looked at her, his beautiful peat brown eyes dulled with torment. “Her spirit came to him, wanting to let me know. As a rune master, he’s more accessible to those in the otherworld, or so he explained to me.

  “I was glad to know what happened. But”—he pulled a hand down over his chin—“it changed naught. Liana was still dead.”

  The green wave of jealousy that had swept her on imagining him married congealed into a cold lump of shame.

  “I’m sorry—” She started forward, reaching for him, but he turned and ducked through the shelter flap before she’d taken two steps.

  His pain remained in the little space, thick, acrid, and terrible. The horror of his loss surrounded her; she could feel it seep into her bones. Outrage also flared through her, constricting her chest and taking her breath. She knew now how much he’d lost and what drove him. And why he’d become a Viking slayer.

  He truly was a hero.

  And just now, she wanted only to hold him.

  Tonight, if she was still in his world, she’d try and make him forget all he had lost.

  Chapter 14

  “Badachro’s quiet.”

  At the Sea-Raven’s bow, Magnus glanced at the young warrior standing beside him. He agreed with Ewan’s assessment. Badachro Bay did look empty.

  But no sign of Vikings didn’t mean they weren’t about, hidden somewhere. It was a truth Magnus knew well, so he kept his gaze sharp as the Sea-Raven beat deeper into the woody, steep-sided inlet.

  “Peaceful or no’, we’ll still have two men keep watch from Sgeir Ghlas this night.” Magnus glanced at Ewan. “You, I’m thinking, and Dugan.” Ewan grinned. “Last time we moored here, you kept vigil on thon gray rock.” He gaze flicked to the barren islet and then to the sailcloth stretched across the other end of the ship. “Can it be you’ll make your bed in Sea-Raven ’s stern this e’en?

  “I would”—he looked back to Magnus, winking—“if the lass fancied me.”

  “Watch your tongue if you wish to keep it.” Magnus thumped the lad’s shoulder to take the sting from his words. “Now get you back to the steering oar before your grandfather runs us into a rock. He isn’t the steersman he once was. But”—he
gripped Ewan’s arm as the young man started away—“dinnae be telling Calum I said so.”

  “I will nae.” Ewan grinned again, and was gone.

  Magnus caught a flutter at the sailcloth flap and saw Margo ease aside the heavy cloth just enough to peek out at the high, tree-covered hills they were gliding past. The highest peaks were lost in heavy mist and her eyes shone as she looked there, as if the rolling blue haze delighted her. When the flap gaped a bit more and he saw that she’d pressed a hand to her breast, he knew he’d guessed right.

  She was thrilled by the mist.

  His chest tightened, watching her. It’d been many years since he’d looked at a simple thing like sea haar and seen a wonder. Surely not since he was a wee lad and his mother told him tales that Highland mist was the realm of faeries and that the luminosity of such mist was truly the glow of their raiments and the sparkling of their wands.

  He’d listened, round-eyed. And he’d believed every word.

  Until the harsh realities of life in these beautiful but harsh hills had taught him differently.

  The pull in his chest became an ache, a longing for something he’d lost and he didn’t know how to retrieve. And it worsened when Margo sensed him retrieve. And it worsened when Margo sensed him watching her, and instead of nipping back into the shadows and closing the flap, she locked eyes with him.

  Her face softened as she looked at him, her huge blue eyes seeing into his soul, he was sure. But just when he was about to shift on his feet like a fuzzy-bearded youth, she let the shelter flap drop.

  He waited for her to peek out again—he could feel her wish to do so, as if they were somehow connected and he knew her mind—but the sailcloth didn’t stir.

  The moment had passed.

  And he needed to keep his gaze on the water and land before him, watching for any sign of Vikings. His days of searching for faeries flying about in the mist were gone and no more. So he turned back to the bow and took a deep breath of the cold air blowing in from the north.

  He welcomed the relief that sluiced through him.

  Ewan had been right.