Must Love Kilts

by Allie Mackay

  Badachro was still.

  The scatter of reed-thatched huts dotting the shore sent up thin blue curls of peat smoke, the sight assuring Magnus that the fisherfolk who dwelt here hadn’t been troubled. Six fat cattle grazed behind the hovels, near to the wood’s edge. Magnus’s own beasts, each one a prize animal, they’d been brought here a short while ago to be used as bait at Redpoint.

  Magnus rubbed the back of his neck, hoping all would go as planned.

  Willing it so, he glanced away along the shore again, searching for any small indication of treachery.

  He saw none.

  There were no docks here. But several fishing boats bobbed in the bay and others had been drawn onto the shore, resting beyond the tide line. A small dog scratched and sniffed around a pile of drying seaweed. And a few skinny chickens pecked near the door of one of the fishing huts.

  Nothing else moved.

  Dim light shone from Orla’s cottage, which could mean she had a visitor. Magnus frowned as he eyed her home. Whitewashed and recently thatched with thick, fresh heather, the cottage was a more sturdy structure than the rest and set apart at the far end of the settlement. The red door was closed and he hadn’t been mistaken: soft yellow candle glow did glimmer in the two deep-set windows. Magnus knew she entertained at all hours. And he wouldn’t relish interrupting her trade. His gut also clenched to imagine what the joy woman would make of Margo.

  Above all, he hoped Margo wouldn’t misunderstand his friendship with the other woman.

  Orla was as attractive as she was perceptive.

  She was also an invaluable helpmate.

  Magnus hoped she wouldn’t let him down now.

  He’d soon know, for Ewan was expertly guiding Sea-Raven toward the sloping strand, preparing to glide the ship onto the shingle.

  Needing to be sure all was well, Magnus cast one more look across the quiet waters.

  But he hadn’t missed anything.

  No Norse warships lurked in the bay, hiding their heathen presence behind the handful of islets guarding the inlet. Had his enemies been here, he’d have sent them to the sea bottom before they could blink. But he shuddered at having Margo on board during any such encounter. It was bad enough that she’d be at Redpoint.

  Frowning, he touched Vengeance’s hilt, knowing the red-sanded cove would be a scene of slaughter.

  A necessary warning to his foes—especially after what happened at Gairloch—his plans for Redpoint couldn’t be avoided.

  He would ensure that Margo remained well away from the blood spilling.

  For now, he strode down the ship’s center aisle, swiftly covering the paces to the sailcloth shelter and the woman who was as responsible for the knot in his chest as for the hot, throbbing ache in his loins.

  “Margo.” He drew aside the flap before his good sense warned him to leave her where she was. “You can come out now. No more need to peek, lass. There is no danger here.”

  “No Vikings?” She stood in shadow, but enough light fell through the flap opening for him to see the unasked question in her eyes.

  “No dangers at all.” He ducked through the opening and went to her. He took her face in both his hands. “I wouldn’t take you ashore if I thought harm would come to you.”

  “So ...” She hesitated, her blue eyes luminous in the shelter’s dimness. “Nothing will happen that might cause me pain?”

  “Nae. You have my word.” He held her gaze, knowing she hadn’t meant marauding Northmen.

  She’d meant him.

  She’d wanted assurance that the sizzling need that scorched the air every time they so much as looked at each other wouldn’t burn her.

  He was already on fire, as he was sure she knew.

  But he also saw the worry shimmering at the backs of her eyes. She might not admit such concerns, and she might love Scotland—any fool could see that she did—but he knew it must be hard to find herself in a strange world filled with dangers she’d never before encountered.

  She needed reassurance.

  He smoothed her hair behind an ear, and then leaned down to drop a kiss on her brow.

  “So long as you are with me, you have my protection.” He wouldn’t lie and promise anything more. Not knowing she could be ripped from him any moment, plunged back into the distant place she claimed was her home. “I’ll no’ leave your side.”

  “Thank you. But I don’t want to be a bother on your ship.” She stepped closer, her cold-winter-air and rose scent coming with her, teasing and taunting him.

  “I’ll try to get my sea legs,” she added, the determined tilt of her chin making his heart hurt.

  “You will.” He took her hand, linking his fingers with hers as he led her out of the shelter and into the ship’s narrow aisle. “Now come. My men will set us ashore, leaving us at Badachro. Then”—he nodded across the water to the spit of gray rock that was Sgeir Ghlas—“they’ll take the Sea-Raven over to moor by thon islet for the night.”

  She followed his gaze, looking calmer than he’d expected. “Where is the ‘wee cothouse with its driftwood fire and pallet of plaids’?” Keeping a hand on the edge of the stern platform, she turned away from Gray Rock to scan the shore, studying the turf-walled fisher huts before her attention settled on Orla’s cottage.

  “That one looks substantial.” Her eyes narrowed.

  “Thon is Orla’s cottage.” Magnus tried to keep his tone neutral. “There, beyond the treeline”—he pointed to the opposite end of the bay—“is the wee cothouse I meant. You can’t see it because it’s in the wood. No one has lived there for years. Folk use it for shelter only.”

  “I don’t see anything.” She leaned forward, trying for a better view, and Magnus saw that her lips were swollen from his kisses.

  The soft ripeness made her look vulnerable and incredibly desirable. As if she knew, she straightened and lifted a hand to touch her mouth.

  “Oh, dear ...” She traced a fingertip across the curve of her lips. Tapping her lower lip’s fullness, she tested for tenderness.

  Her eyes widened, her finger exploring her lip. “I must look awful. . . .”

  “Nae.” Magnus could hardly speak. His gaze was frozen on her questing finger, the glimpse he caught of her tongue when she parted her lips just a bit. “You look . . . You are—” He clamped his own mouth tight, aware he was spluttering.

  Worse, his men were gawking.

  He glared at them until they looked elsewhere.

  Then he turned back to Margo and immediately wished he hadn’t. The sight of her damping the tip of her finger with her tongue froze him. And as his brows flew down in another scowl, she felt again along her lower lip.

  Magnus nearly roared.

  Something inside him clenched and it was all he could do not to grab her to him and plunder her sweet mouth again. And this time, he’d kiss her for hours and hours, tasting and ravishing her ceaselessly, sating himself on her, until the morrow’s sun rose and set once more. Then he’d begin all over again.

  She was maddening him.

  And something told him she was doing it on purpose.

  “Hold her, Magnus!” Ewan called the warning just as the Sea-Raven’s bow started to glide toward the shore’s sloping strand.

  “Oh, God!” Margo paled and grabbed Magnus, clinging tight.

  “All is well.” He whipped an arm around her, pulling her hard against him. “We’ll settle in a moment.”

  “Back oars!” Calum’s deep voice boomed beside his grandson as the rowers quickly reversed their pulls. All around them water seethed and foamed as the long oars churned the surf, the rowers expertly keeping the ship from grinding onto the shingle.

  Then the Sea-Raven came to a halt, riding the choppy waters about ten feet from shore. Knowing there was only one way to get Margo off the ship, Magnus swept her up in his arms, carrying her to the bow.

  “Dugan, come along!” He threw a glance at the little man as he marched down the ship’s aisle. Dugan had more strength than
some men three times as large.

  And, unlike a few of the other warriors on board, he wouldn’t be tempted to let Margo fall into the water when he handed her over the side and into Magnus’s waiting arms.

  Proving it, Dugan sprang to his feet, grinning. “Are you taking me ashore?” He caught up with them, eager. “I’ll guard the lady—”

  “Wait!” Margo squirmed, eyeing the rough surf. “I’m not ready to go anywhere. I liked the sailcloth—”

  “You’ve been itching to see land.” Magnus held her firm. “Now you’re almost there. Stop wriggling.”

  “But—”

  Ignoring her, Magnus turned again to Dugan. “There are others to guard her. You’re to keep watch with Ewan on Sgeir Ghlas. Just hand the lass o’er to me.” Quickly, he placed her in Dugan’s arms and then swung over the side before Margo would have time to protest or become frightened.

  Or so he hoped.

  But when he reached up to take her as Dugan lowered her over the side, he saw that she’d squeezed shut her eyes.

  Her face was ghostly white.

  Magnus understood. The water was waist-deep and freezing, the current strong and making it difficult for even him to keep his feet.

  “Have a care!” he roared at Dugan, not liking the fool’s cheeky grin.

  But the little man handled her gently, easing her into Magnus’s arms as carefully as if he held something truly precious.

  As well he did.

  The truth of it made Magnus lift her even higher against his chest so that she was almost riding his shoulder as he stood, watching Ewan back the Sea-Raven away from the strand and into the deep waters of the bay.

  “Come for us at sunrise!” He nodded sharply as Ewan responded with a flourish, letting the oars dip and flash in a quick farewell before the Sea-Raven whipped around in a plume of spray and sped away toward the Gray Rock and the other islets.

  Now he was alone on the strand with Margo.

  Or they would be as soon as he marched out of the icy water.

  She’d gone still as stone.

  “You can open your eyes, lass.” Magnus turned to splash through the surf, making for the shore. “We’re on solid ground again.”

  “I don’t call this solid.” Margo wasn’t cracking an eye-lash.

  Not yet.

  “I will nae let you fall, Mar-go.” Magnus nuzzled her neck, nipping her ear as he shifted her higher against his shoulder. “You needn’t look if you’d rather wait.

  We’re almost ashore.”

  Margo wanted to believe him.

  His neck nuzzle and ear nibble made her skin tingle, providing a welcome distraction.

  But she still wasn’t ready to look.

  Keeping her eyes shut left her in a world that was cold, wet, and dark. Seeing it would be scarier. She’d never believed in peering beneath rocks. Ugly things always lurked there, waiting to pounce. This was one of those times she was leaving the rocks alone. She didn’t need to look to know the world had turned nasty.

  Icy waves were crashing into them and she’d felt Magnus’s foot slip once. Worse, the crack and splashing of the dragon ship’s oars filled the air, the noise so terrifyingly close that she expected one of the long, flashing oars to bop them any minute, knocking them under the waves, where they’d drown.

  If doom was coming, she didn’t want to see its arrival.

  She wasn’t that brave.

  But then the waves stopped hurtling into them, and the smell of peat smoke and pine was suddenly high on the wind, seasoning the cold, salt air. She also caught a trace of cooking smells—a rich, savory stew?—as they reached solid ground and Magnus carried her out of the surf and up the sloping shoreline.

  “There, see you?” He set her down, but kept his hands at her waist, holding her. “We’re here. Soon you’ll be warm and have new, dry clothes.” His gaze flicked to the red-doored cottage at the far end of the little bay. “Orla is about your size and will have everything you’ll need.”

  “Won’t she wonder who I am?” Margo was torn between her desire to see the last of Orosius’s heavy, now-wet bearskin cloak and hesitation at meeting the medieval joy woman.

  A woman who was obviously on very good terms with Magnus.

  “Orla is a friend, no more.” Magnus cupped her face, his dark gaze earnest as he repeated what he’d already told her.

  “Many women are friendly until they sense competition.” The argument slipped out before she could bite her tongue.

  Magnus smoothed his hands down over her shoulders and then along her sides, sliding his arms around her. He pulled her close. “You dinnae have any competition.” His voice was low and gruff, his gaze intense. “You ne’er have, if you’d know the truth of it.” Margo’s heart dipped. “I know you were... You must’ve—”

  “You dinnae hear well, aye?” He placed his palm against her cheek, pressing gently. His warmth soothed her. “I said no one.”

  “I—” Margo broke off when the fisherfolk began stepping out of their huts, gathering in a ragtag huddle to stare down the strand at her and Magnus.

  They didn’t look hostile. And none of them made an attempt to approach, instead staying in a tight circle where they were, near their turf-walled hovels. The small dog she’d noticed earlier ran back and forth, barking. But he looked more excited than ferocious.

  And his tail was wagging.

  Still. . .

  Margo swallowed, remembering how easily Magnus’s men had taken her for a witch.

  “They’re only curious. They’ve been expecting me.

  But they’ll be surprised to see you.” He turned their way then, lifting a hand in greeting as he called to them. “You’ll have three of the cattle returned to you soon.” His promise earned smiles. “The beasts will be your own then, after Redpoint.”

  The smiles turned into grins.

  A little boy, thin-shouldered and wearing a tattered plaid, danced a jig.

  Magnus smiled as he watched the sprite, a dimple flashing once in his cheek.

  “I’ll send a few more from Badcall, and a fine pair o’ pigs,” Magnus shouted, and Margo was surprised when the villagers didn’t throw themselves on the ground, bowing to him.

  They’d looked that happy.

  She glanced at Magnus, puzzled.

  “What was all that about?” She hadn’t understood anything he’d said. She had seen that the villagers idolized him.

  “I’ll explain later, at the cothouse.” He wasn’t looking at her. He’d set his hands on his hips while he watched the villagers trickle back inside their huts.

  They seemed to have forgotten she was there.

  Magnus hadn’t.

  He turned back to her, and his eyes were fierce again, reminding her so much of how he’d looked in the book illustration. As in the drawing, his long hair streamed in the wind, and as if he’d read her thoughts, he’d set his hand on his sword hilt, his strong fingers lightly circling the hilt. His arm rings shone brightly and his wet plaid clung to him, molded to the broad, hard-muscled expanse of his chest. He stood with his legs apart, the warrior stance making her breath catch.

  He was her dream turned reality.

  Being near him, breathing the same air, listening to his beautiful, deep voice, and seeing his passion, all lit a simmering desire inside her. She was almost light-headed with wanting him.

  And she wanted more than his lovemaking. She wanted him to care about her with the same burning fervor she’d seen in him when he’d stopped to call out to the fisherfolk.

  She knew now he’d never love her. No woman could compete with a ghost, especially not a martyred one.

  But she so hoped he would care for her.

  “Thon folk have suffered much.” He was still watching the villagers, looking on as a few stragglers disappeared into their humble dwellings. “I’ve sworn an oath to do all I can to keep them safe and spare them grief.”

  His words speared Margo’s heart.

  She shivered in the win
d—it was freshening, the sky darkening with heavy clouds—but a deep, molten heat spread inside her, growing warmer when he took her hand, meshing their fingers.

  “Come, now.” He led her along the curving strand, skirting the tide line and taking her up near the edge of the trees toward the tidy, whitewashed cottage with its red painted door.

  Margo hurried beside him, one hand gripping the bearskin mantle to keep it from gaping wide. The cold stones shifted under her bare feet, making it difficult to walk. And several times she stumbled, slipping on the shingle. But Magnus caught her each time, steadying her and giving her a moment to regain her balance.

  It was after one such pause that a glint of silver in the wood caught her eye.

  “Magnus.” She froze, scanning the thick edge of pines. “I saw something in the trees. I think”—her blood chilled at the possibility—“it was the flash of mail.”

  “It was.” To her surprise he grinned.

  She blinked. “You saw it, too?”

  “Nae.” He started forward again, seemingly unconcerned. “But I know there are men in the wood.

  They are my own warriors. They’re crewmen from one of my other ships, the Wave-Dancer.” He stopped briefly, glancing at the dark pines before they moved on. “Calum had orders to send them here. They’ll circle the cothouse as we sleep this them here. They’ll circle the cothouse as we sleep this night, standing guard to alert me should an enemy approach.”

  “Oh.” Margo was both relieved and—she couldn’t believe this—disappointed, because she was so sure he’d meant to make love to her at the little cottage.

  She still felt reasonably sure.

  And that only tied her belly in a worse knot.

  Privacy might not be a big issue in medieval times, but she wasn’t keen on getting naked and intimate with a circle of hard-faced, sword- and ax-packing men-in-steel anywhere within hearing range.

  The very idea sent a wash of heat up her neck.

  Magnus smiled and gripped her fingers tighter.

  “You’ll no’ ken they’re there. They’ve been told to keep at a good distance.”

  Margo’s face burned even hotter on his words. It was almost as bad that he obviously knew she expected him to ravish her. Mortified, she took a deep, calming breath.